


furtive little feelings

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Classics, Elevators, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pining, Realization, The Princess Bride References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras realizes he’s in love with Grantaire.  Slow-burn pining, misunderstandings, and possibly hilarity ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	furtive little feelings

**Author's Note:**

> this was written on commission last fall; the second half will appear sometime this spring, which is where there will be body worship porn. for now, enjoy the nerds being nerds.

_Life is about love,_  
 _Lost minutes and lost evenings_  
 _Fire in our bellies_  
 _And the furtive little feelings._  
  
 _— “_ I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous” by Frank Turner  
  
 **I.**  The Dreams You Have to Chase

* * *

 

Karaoke had been Courfeyrac’s idea, ultimately, and everyone had jumped on it.  So now, they are in an honest-to-god karaoke bar.  

Enjolras tries to pretend none of this is happening, sitting in the back corner of the booth with his phone and thoroughly ignoring the caterwauling and wailing going on onstage.  It’s a while before Courfeyrac slides into the booth next to him and elbows him in the ribs.

"Yo, Marius and Grantaire are doing a duet," he says.  
  
Enjolras looks up to see the two of them mounting the stage.  Marius looks like he’s about to die of nervousness, barely held in check by a steely kind of determination.  Grantaire is smirking at seemingly completely at ease.

"I’m pretty sure Marius is about to tell Cosette he wants to date her," Courfeyrac comments as the music starts up.

Marius opens the number:

 _We never spoke a word_  
 _But every thought she had I heard_  
 _From across the room._  
 _We were standing face to face_  
 _I couldn’t find the words to say_  
 _To give me one more move._  
  
 _I don’t even know her name._  
 _I guess foolish pride’s to blame._  
  
Then Grantaire starts harmonizing, a low hum that’s only barely audible and supports Marius’s part as the man sings.  Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek, because Christ, is this yet another thing Grantaire is brilliant at?

Apparently so, as the song comes to Grantaire’s part.  
  
 _Son, I missed my chance._  
 _Don’t let regret take place_  
 _of the dreams you have to chase_  
 _Ask her to dance._  
 _(Go on, son)_  
  
 _You might fall down on your face —_  
 _Roll the dice and have some faith.ˆ_  
  
Something twists in Enjolras’s insides, and he doesn’t know what to say or to do, because something in those lines itches at him, and he doesn’t know why.

But beyond that, Grantaire’s voice is warm and rough and entrancing, and he harmonizes with Marius so well, even as Marius’s voice shakes a little when he looks at Cosette.  Courfeyrac throws a brilliant smile over at him, Enjolras notices, like he’s proud of him, and the whole situation warms him a little.  But, for the most part, Enjolras is watching Grantaire.

Grantaire meets his eyes briefly during the chorus and something  _zings_  down Enjolras’s spine and he glances down self-consciously.  He doesn’t know what any of it means, but he almost shivers.  Almost.

When the song ends, and the voices die away and they dismount the stage, Grantaire returns to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s table, grinning over at Marius, who is awkwardly approaching Cosette.  Courfeyrac slides out of the booth, smiling as well, and heads over to Cosette and Marius, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts.

And he thinks about that zing and the way Grantaire sounds when singing through the next three songs before it hits him, like a sack of textbooks to the face and a punch to the gut.

“ _Fuck.”_

——

"I’m in love with Grantaire," he announces to Combeferre and Courfeyrac the next morning, as Courfeyrac bursts through the apartment door, radiating triumph while Combeferre and Enjolras are trying to revive themselves with their morning coffee.

Courfeyrac starts laughing.  And doesn’t stop.  Enjolras glares.

"This isn’t funny.  I’m in love with Grantaire, Courfeyrac.   _Grantaire_!”  Enjolras clenches his hands around his coffee cup and looks at Combeferre for some kind of support or reassurance.

Combeferre sighs.  ”So you finally figured it out?”

Courfeyrac is somewhat hysterical and is leaning against the wall near the door of the apartment, trying to get his breath back.

"People figured it out before I did?" Enjolras asks, worry coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"Don’t worry, Grantaire has no idea," Combeferre adds.  "He’s as oblivious as you were."

"Oh.  Okay," Enjolras says quietly.  "Thank you."

Finally, Courfeyrac calms down enough to say, “I’m going to cry, it’s been ages since everyone else noticed your Grantaire thing, you have no idea.”

"What."

Combeferre steeples his fingers.  ”You stare at him when he’s not looking at you, and I don’t think you’ve noticed, but your Internet history is pretty clogged with articles on Classicism and mythology research, in between journalism websites and political theory and Twitter.”

"But — but — his conversation is interesting and I want to be sure I understand his implications!"

"You have the most one-track mind any of us have ever known, Enjolras."  Combeferre sighs again.  "And beyond that, two weeks ago you expressed an interest in going to his martial arts tournament two months from now.  And not to mention, he’s basically all you talk about except for the Causes."

Enjolras has to accept all of these things as true.  ”He’s…I really think I’m in love with him.”

"Okay," Combeferre responds, expression deadpan.

"I don’t know what to do."

Courfeyrac’s grin should have been a warning of Hijinks To Come.

——

Technically, the hijinks are not even Courfeyrac’s fault — or, if they  _are_  his fault, they are only so on a tangential level.  It’s Courfeyrac’s birthday, and he’s managed to convince the owner of a fancy nightclub downtown to reserve them the penthouse loft on the top floor of an even fancier building the girl owns for his birthday party, and then he invites essentially everyone they’ve ever even met.

It’s a big birthday — twenty-one — and Courfeyrac’s obviously excited about it, so Enjolras can’t even really grumble too much.

And, since he’s never been to this building before, and is mostly unfamiliar with this part of town, he’s late.  When he arrives at the right building, fuming a little, he looks up and sees Grantaire walking down the sidewalk from the opposite direction.

They lock eyes, and it takes everything Enjolras has in him not to blush.  It’s only been a week or two since the epiphany at the karaoke bar, and Enjolras gets like this every time they see each other.

It’s a problem, he admits that.

"Oh, hi."  Grantaire is looking at him, a little confused.  "You’re late, too?"

"I got lost," Enjolras admits.  "And you?"

"Overslept.  Nap, unfortunately, ran a little overlong."  Grantaire smiles a little at himself, and Enjolras bites his lip.

They linger a little by the door.  Enjolras hates this, hates that it’s so hard to just  _talk_  to Grantaire, talk to him in a context that isn’t a knock-down, drag-out battle of wills and arguments and the occasional insult that cuts way, way too deep.  He glances down at his shoes for a moment and then looks Grantaire in the face again.  ”After you?”

Grantaire nods, and goes inside, Enjolras following.

They’re quiet in the elevator, until it jerks to a stop, somewhere in the middle of the building.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Grantaire says emphatically, the syllable cracking over the silence.  ”Fucking shit.”

 _I’m sorry,_  Enjolras doesn’t say,  _I’m sorry you’d rather be anywhere but trapped in an elevator with me._   He shifts a little instead, from one foot to the other, and then reaches for the emergency button.

As it turns out, the concierge has no idea what to do to help them, and tells them to just sit tight while they get the elevator fixed.  Enjolras sighs and turns to see how Grantaire reacts, because he doesn’t know how he should.

Grantaire has retreated to the corner furthest away from the control panel, and his arms are crossed across his chest.  He looks withdrawn, and Enjolras isn’t sure how to respond.  He can’t just ignore the other man for the duration of their time in this elevator, and maybe a distraction would help.

"So," he starts off, curling into the corner he’s nearest to.  "Looks like we’re stuck for a while."

"I had no idea," Grantaire says, and it would be a deadpan, but there’s something tight in the base of his voice that gives away his discomfort with the situation.

Enjolras looks down at his feet.  ”Sorry.”

"What do you have to be sorry for?" Grantaire asks him, not quite sharply.  "It’s not your fault we’re here, you don’t need to apologize for anything."

"Sor—" Enjolras cuts himself off and blushes.

It seems to startle a laugh out of Grantaire, and Enjolras dares to look up.  Grantaire’s hiding his mouth behind his hand, one arm still crossed across his chest, elbow resting in his other palm.  His eyes are sparkling, just a little, and Enjolras has to remind himself to breathe.

Grantaire sobers a little.  ”Didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

"It’s okay," Enjolras protests, hands spreading before retreating back to his sides.  "This is just an odd situation."

It’s quiet after that for a long moment, and Grantaire’s eyes drift down to look into the middle distance somewhere to Enjolras’s left.  Enjolras does the same, mirrors him only a little on purpose.

"How are you liking that classics class?" Grantaire asks, breaking the silence.

Enjolras blinks.  ”I’m enjoying it, I think.  The  _Iliad_  is at least readable in this translation.  The professor seems to recognize the homoeroticism between Achilles and Patroclus but seems unwilling to directly address it.”

"Xenophon," Grantaire says, grinning again.  "He probably agrees with Xenophon."

"I don’t understand the reference?" It’s intriguing, fascinating, the scope of Grantaire’s knowledge, and Grantaire’s Classics knowledge is particularly impressive.  

Grantaire’s eyes spark.  ”Some of the oldest academic arguments in the Western tradition were over whether or not Achilles and Patroclus were fucking, and, if they were, who topped.  Xenophon claimed that it was definitely not Homer’s intent for them to be read that way, whereas Aeschylus and Plato both put them in the context of the cultural practice of  _pederasteia,_  where an established adult man will court a youth of about sixteen or older and then teach him how to be an adult.  This teacher, the  _erastes_ , would be the dominant partner in sex, usually intercrural sex.”

"That’s fascinating," Enjolras replies, smiling himself.  "In the context of  _pederasteia,_  how would  _you_  characterize Achilles and Patroclus, then?”

"Patroclus was Achilles’  _erastes_ , without doubt,” Grantaire says immediately.  ”Achilles is the younger — the business with the apple that started the war happened at his parents’ wedding — and he fits basically every characteristic of the idealized  _eromenos_  archetype.  Patroclus goes into battle as Achilles is supposed to, wearing Achilles’ armor, exemplifying what Achilles is refusing to do i.e., seeking glory,  _kleos_.  His death teaches Achilles that refusal to go seeking glory won’t protect those nearest to him, and won’t even protect him, either, since, after all, Patroclus is as one with him, and also it teaches him that having this paralyzing arrogance and pride over Briseis and what she represents will be to his detriment — and, at the funeral games, we see Achilles smoothing over quarrels similar to the one that sent him to the tents, precipitating all of this tragedy.”

Enjolras can’t stop smiling, feeling almost giddy at the way Grantaire is speaking so passionately, so eloquently.  ”I have no counter-argument to offer — except the feminizing of Patroclus in the parallel with Meleager’s wife Cleopatra.  You wouldn’t put the dominant partner in this kind of culture in the role of wife.”

Grantaire’s grin widens.  ”The beauty of it’s in the subversion of expectation.  If you’ll notice, it’s the women in this epic who actually get shit done — Hera, Thetis, Helen even to an extent; they’re all instrumental in convincing men to do things when those men would otherwise be passive in the events going on.  All of the women take on this kind of a role — the persuasive power of woman is the same as the seductive effort of any erastes.  No matter what, it still works out.”

"I’ll agree with you there — the men in this epic are remarkably inactive until someone drives them to a passionate extreme," Enjolras responds.

"Which brings us back to the inevitability of interpreting Achilles and Patroclus as lovers."  Grantaire looks satisfied, almost smug.  "Tell  _that_  to your professor.”

Enjolras can’t help the laugh that escapes him.  ”Tell him yourself!”

"I’m not taking that class," Grantaire rebuts after a moment, sounding a little confused.

"Sit in, sit in sometime and then just tear into him," Enjolras suggests, imagining it.  It would be  _incredible_  to see, he thinks.

Grantaire smiles, almost hesitantly.  ”You’re a little vicious when you want to be.”

"It’s the dominant interpretation of their relationship for most of literary history; the fact that my professor is erasing that is worrying, especially since this class intends to discuss how these works are the basis of the Western tradition of literature."  Enjolras shrugs.  "And I’ve been on the receiving end, as it were, of more than one of your excellent arguments."

"You’re ridiculous, I’m not that —"

Grantaire doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because the elevator jerks to motion again.  He stumbles, and, because the elevator is small, winds up in Enjolras’s space.

"Uh," Enjolras manages.  

"Shit, sorry," Grantaire says, fear flashing through his eyes like lightning.  His face is somewhere around Enjolras’s collarbone, and he pulls away quickly.

"It was an accident, it’s fine.  Um.  Still, you should definitely sit in on my class."

That pulls a smile out of Grantaire again, as the doors slide open one the top floor of the building.

Enjolras feels his stomach flip over, and smiles back.  
  
—-  
  
"That was absolutely brilliant," Enjolras says as they walk out of the lecture hall a week later, face split into a grin.  "That was amazing."

Grantaire is grinning too.  ”He actually  _threw us out_.”

"He knew we were right and he couldn’t handle it."  Enjolras is almost crowing about it, laughing.  "You were fantastic, you should come to all my classes and just read professors the riot act."

"Shut up, you’d get sick of me after a week," Grantaire replies, tilting his head away.  

"I don’t think so," Enjolras replies.  "This is fun."

Grantaire smiles and shakes his head.  ”You are absolutely awful, I can’t take you anywhere.”

"You really don’t mind, I know you had fun," Enjolras rebuts, flying high on the adrenaline of a good argument, and if he’s honest, the way Grantaire is smiling.

"Yeah," Grantaire admits, "I did."

"We should hang out more," Enjolras says quickly, not wanting to lose this tenuous thread of warmth between them.

Grantaire stares at him. “You’re serious?”

"What, do you not want to?" Enjolras asks, frowning.

"No!" Grantaire nearly jumps as he says it. "No, I’d love to, I just — I wasn’t expecting you to want to."

"Well, I do," Enjolras replies, "so, um, do you want to?"

"Yeah," Grantaire says, nodding slowly. "When?"

Enjolras thinks about it. “I’m free Saturday. Do you want to go to that gallery exhibit?”

Grantaire nods. “Um, sure. Are you sure? I known you don’t really do the art gallery thing.”

"I’m sure. Next time I’ll drag you to a lecture or something." Enjolras smiles, even though his stomach is doing Olympic-level acrobatics.

"Okay," Grantaire says, "I’m good with that."

——

"You asked him out?" Courfeyrac asks, raising an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

Enjolras stops. “Oh god, did I?”

Courfeyrac looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “You asked him to come with you to an art gallery. You don’t even like art galleries, and you want to wander around one alone with him? Come on, Enjolras.”

It’s a fair point. “I asked him to hang out.”

"You don’t ‘hang out’ at an art gallery unless you work at one or you’re an art major, and you are neither of those." Courfeyrac steeples his fingers. "I think this counts as asking him out."

"Does he think —?" "Fuck if I know, really," Courfeyrac says, patting Enjolras’s shoulder.  "But I think you’re in the clear."  
  
Enjolras sighs and puts his head in his hands.  ”Should I have just asked him out?”  
  
"Do you think you could’ve?" Courf asks.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then you did the right thing, and whatever happens, happens."  He grins as his phone makes a familiar dinging noise, indicating a text.  "Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’s probably Marius — him, me, Cosette, and Eponine are going bowling."  
  
Enjolras nods and sighs some more and lets him go.  
  
He stays draped over the kitchen table, though, until Combeferre comes in and takes Courfeyrac’s vacated spot.  ”What’s wrong?”  
  
"Courfeyrac thinks I asked Grantaire out and I don’t know if I did or not."  
  
Combeferre stays quiet for a long moment, and then:  ”What did you say?”  
  
"I asked him to hang out with me and he was like okay and I suggested the art gallery a few blocks away from campus and he said he thought I don’t like that kind of thing and I said that was fine, I could just drag him to a lecture or something next time and I really don’t know what I’m doing, ‘Ferre."  
  
"First, calm down."  Combeferre reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.  "Stop freaking out about it.  That’s not going to help your state of mind at all right now, okay?"  
  
Enjolras takes a deep breath.  ”I want him to like me.  Like that.”  
  
"We’ve established that."  
  
"But what if he doesn’t and that makes this awkward?  I just want to have a good day with him and not get into a fight and the last thing I could want is to make myself look like an asshole."  Enjolras rubs his face.  "Help."  
  
"I know you’re going to hate this advice," Combeferre says.  "But just be you, and you’ll be all right."  
  
"But we get into fights constantly when I’m ‘being me,’ how am I supposed to make this work?"  It’s a fair point, he thinks, biting his lip, and the thing that really bothers him the most about all of this.  
  
Combeferre pats him again.  ”Just don’t overthink it.  You psych yourself out and freeze up when you do that.  This is hanging out at an art gallery, not debating public policy, necessarily.”  
  
"Okay," Enjolras mutters, and that’s really that.  
  
——  
  
Cosette drops by to help him decide what to wear that Saturday, because Courfeyrac’s advice had been to go naked and Combeferre had merely given them both a long-suffering glance before leaving to meet with Bahorel and Jehan for what Enjolras suspected was an underground fight club.  
  
"I really don’t really understand why you need me to help you with this — you have literally two kinds of shirts and five pairs of the same jeans."  Cosette is grinning, and Enjolras thinks he’s seen that same expression on Courfeyrac’s face.  
  
He’s going to have to talk to Courfeyrac about corrupting their friends.  
  
"But I want to look nice."  Enjolras stares at the contents of his closet, which are spread out on his bed.  
  
"Enjolras, is this a date?"  Cosette asks.  "Because if this is a date, well…I need details."  
  
"It’s not a date!  Why does everyone keep asking me that?"  Enjolras crosses his arms.  "I’m just going to an art gallery with him, it’s not a date."  
  
Cosette’s smile softens.  ”But you like him.”  
  
"Yes," Enjolras admits.  "Please tell me you didn’t know that already?"  
  
She laughs.  ”I’m sorry, Enjolras, you know I don’t lie.”  
  
Enjolras groans.  ”I hate you all.  How is it that everyone else figured this out first?”  He snatches up a shirt.  ”What about this one?”  
  
It’s a good shirt, he thinks.  It’s a grey button-up that he doesn’t wear often, and he can maybe wear a red t-shirt under it, and that’ll look normal.  Maybe.  He wants to look nice, but not  _too_  nice.  He’s not used to this, he really isn’t.  
  
"Shh, calm down," Cosette says, and Enjolras realizes belatedly that he said all of that aloud.  
  
"I’m fine."  
  
His phone buzzes.  It’s a text from Grantaire.   _Hey.  I’m outside your building._  
  
 _I’ll be down in a minute,_  Enjolras sends back, heart skipping a beat, and then turned to Cosette.  ”Should I wear this?”  
  
"Sure," Cosette says, smiling.  "He’s here?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Cosette nods and hugs him.  ”You’re going to be fine, just go have fun on your totally-not-a-date date.  Don’t do anything that Courf wouldn’t do!”  
  
"That doesn’t actually ban much, Cosette," Enjolras muttered, squeezing her for a moment before going downstairs.  
  
——————————  
  
Grantaire is loitering on the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets.  He looks like he brushed his hair or something, because it’s fluffed out around his head rather than curling a little the way it usually does, and he’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel over a t-shirt, his tattoos only peeking out at the slightly-too-short wrist hems.  
  
Enjolras’s heart skips another beat, but he can’t help but smile at him, if a little nervously.  ”Hi.”  
  
"Hi," Grantaire says back, and Enjolras smiles a little bit wider.    
  
"So, um.  Shall we?"  
  
"Yeah."  Grantaire starts walking in the direction of the gallery, and Enjolras follows, drawing equal with him after a few strides.  
  
There’s a soft silence for a moment, and then Enjolras asks, “So, how did that art presentation go?”  
  
"You heard about that?"  
  
"Joly and Bossuet might have mentioned it to Feuilly while I was talking to him about organizing student workers on campus into a more coherent body," Enjolras said, flushing a little and looking down.  
  
Grantaire laughs a little, like he’s surprised Enjolras noticed.  ”It went okay, I guess.”  
  
He’s hedging, so Enjolras asks, “What project was it for, anyway?”  
  
"Development of personal style or some shit like that.  Test of originality by building on the techniques of the past, I think the syllabus said."  Grantaire shrugs.  "Like I said, it went okay."  
  
He doesn’t seem like he really wants to discuss it further, so Enjolras changes the subject with a nod and smile.  ”Good.  So.  Um.  Anything else interesting happen since the meeting?”  He’s asking because he honestly doesn’t know, and he finds he wants to; he wants to know everything he can, any little detail Grantaire might decide to volunteer about himself.  
  
"Not really."  Grantaire seems surprised, again, that Enjolras would even ask.  "You?"  
  
Enjolras chews on his lower lip for a moment.  ”Not really.  Feuilly and Bahorel blundered in two nights ago half-naked covered in glitter, muttering something about  _Magic Mike_.”  He pauses.  ”I was half-expecting you to wander in in their wake.”  
  
Grantaire laughs outright now, seemingly taken off his guard.  ”Jesus, really?”  
  
"Courfeyrac claims he was in no way involved."  
  
"Courf’s a fuckin’ liar."  Grantaire’s grinning, and it makes Enjolras smile back — it feels almost conspiratorial.  "Seriously.  Glitter?  He’s trying to get out of being in trouble with somebody."  
  
Enjolras just keeps smiling.  ”What happened?”  
  
"I was not actually involved in those particular shenanigans, whatever they were.  Otherwise I probably  _would_  have been in your kitchen drenched in glitter.”  
  
The image shouldn’t be as appealing as it is.  Enjolras bats it away internally.  ”All right, all right.”  
  
Conversation peters out a little with that, but it’s only another block to the gallery.  When they get there, Grantaire takes the door and gestures for Enjolras to go in first.  
  
Inside, there’s a sense of disorder-by-design — as though they  _could_  have organized the place but had chosen not to.  There are sculptures by different artists in different styles all clustered together in one area of the floor, and Enjolras can’t figure out what their system was for organizing the things that they had hanging on the walls — tapestries, woodwork, canvas, the selection seemed to span the gamut of possibilities.  
  
"Welcome to  _Eris_ ,” says a bored-looking boy maybe a year or two younger than them.  He hands them programs, and they head deeper into the building.   
  
Grantaire whistles.  ”They rented the second floor for this exhibit, too, didn’t they?”  
  
"I think so," Enjolras says, glancing down at the program.  It’s cheaply put-together but nicely designed —  _familiarly_ designed.  
  
He flips it over to the back.    
  
 _Exhibit logo copyright Grand R_.  
  
"You didn’t tell me you were  _involved_  in this gallery,” he says.  ”Grantaire!”  
  
Grantaire flushes.  ”It’s not much, um, just the logo and a couple of sketches.  Really, it doesn’t matter — everyone else had shit to do.”  
  
"It’s still impressive," Enjolras insists, unconsciously brushing his thumb across the logo.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, let’s just look around, all right?"  
  
Enjolras nods quickly.  ”Of course.”  
  
They wander around a little, and it becomes painfully obvious very quickly that Enjolras has no idea what he’s doing. The art is nice — but he is far from equipped to say anything constructive regarding it.

Frankly, he looks and feels like a fish out of water, wandering around behind Grantaire and afraid to say anything and reveal himself for the absolute fraud he considers himself to be at present.

Grantaire seems to take pity on him as they slow to a complete stop near the stairs to the second floor. “We don’t have to keep going, um, if you don’t like it.”

"No! Um, I just really don’t know what I’m looking at, so…"  He shrugs, giving in and dropping his eyes sheepishly.  
  
"Oh!"  Grantaire shifts on his feet and moves toward the stairs.  "You — you could have just asked — I mean, it’s not like I have all the answers or anything, this is fucking art, there are no fucking answers, but you know, I might be able to help, or whatever."  
  
Enjolras nods, smiling wider as he follows.    
  
At the top of the stairs, Grantaire stops short.  Enjolras nearly knocks into him — he only barely doesn’t.  ”What’s wrong?”  
  
"Uh, nothing.  Just.  Um.  Mine are right here."  
  
Enjolras should move, he really should.  Instead, he stays where he is, inches away from Grantaire’s back, peering over his shoulder at the two sketches nailed to the wall.  Frameless and chiaroscuro, both are done on heavy paper, and both…  
  
They’re both of Enjolras.  
  
"I should have asked — I — shit, I’m sorry," Grantaire says, and he almost seems to slump a little, resignedly.  
  
"No — I — they’re lovely," Enjolras murmurs back.  "Tell me about them?"  
  
Grantaire inhales sharply, like that was the last thing he had ever expected Enjolras to say.  ”Oh.  Um.  Sure.”  He pauses, gathering himself.  ”I call them  _Martyrdom_  and  _Sacrifice_.  It comes down to — to the expression.  You get this look on your face sometimes, when you talk, and it makes me think…you could have been a martyr, if someone gave you a chance.”  
  
"Oh," Enjolras breathes, insides coiling up.  "That’s — wow."  
  
They stand there in silence for a long moment, and Enjolras stares at these portraits and tries to keep himself steady; the fact that Grantaire has put enough importance on him to draw him, to think about him in this context…  
  
It’s heady.  
  
"You’re really okay with the fact that I drew you?"  Grantaire asks, hesitantly.  
  
"Yes," Enjolras responds, and he wants to — to reach out and touch Grantaire.  But he can’t, that would complicate all of this far too much far too soon.  "They’re beautiful, and certainly worthy of exhibition."  
  
"Th-thanks," Grantaire whispers, and he finally steps forward.  The moment breaks, and Enjolras packs it away to replay it later, when this is all done and he has time to sit down and think about what just happened between them, and what it mattered in the grand scheme of things.  
  
It feels like it mattered, he can’t help but think.  
  
Grantaire seems to have flipped a switch, as though what just happened simply hadn’t, and he starts to ramble about other pieces in the gallery, talking where he can about the artists and the process of installation.  Enjolras listens, and nods when he’s supposed to, but he’s not sure he will be able to remember a word of it — he’s merely caught up in the sound and cadence of Grantaire’s voice, the rasping valve of it.    
  
Eventually, they work their way through the entirety of the exhibit, and find themselves standing outside again on the sidewalk.  Grantaire is carrying himself like he’s skittish — like there’s something here that he’s afraid of.  
  
"So," Grantaire says, rolling over the syllable.  
  
"Come have coffee with me," Enjolras offers almost desperately, because he doesn’t know what else to do.  This had been a terrible idea from the get go, he should have decided on something else if he’d decided to do this at all.  
  
Grantaire blinks.  ”Sure?”  
  
"Oh, okay," Enjolras mumbles.  "Sorry — I mean — if you have something else to do —"  
  
"Sh, it’s fine," Grantaire says, his smile a little bit lopsided.  "I know a place we can get the best coffee in this whole city."  
  
Enjolras smiles, his heart flipping over in his chest.  ”Lead on, then,” he says.  
  
Grantaire looks at him like he’s not sure what’s going on here, but Enjolras smiles a little more, and that pulls an answering smile out of him, and they move on.  
  
The cafe they wind up in is small, and Enjolras has never been there before, but he trusts Grantaire, especially with things like this.  So he hangs back as Grantaire goes up to the counter and orders — and he knows what Enjolras’s preferred coffee order is, too.  
  
Enjolras fights down a blush.  Because really, really, this is feeling more and more like a date the more he thinks about it and the longer they’re here.  
  
Grantaire passes him his drink.  ”Do you wanna sit down?” he asks, quietly, again almost hesitant.  
  
"We could walk around, if you wanted?" Enjolras replies, just as quiet.  
  
"The park’s really nice this time of year," Grantaire says, nodding.  "We could walk around there, if you want."  
  
"Let’s do that," Enjolras says, and  _god_ this is so goddamn awkward.  Why is this so awkward, all of a sudden?  He takes a sip of his coffee, and it’s heavenly.  ”This is — wow.  This is really good.”  
  
Grantaire smiles.  ”Glad you like it.”  
  
They start for the park.  Enjolras has never felt more self-conscious than this, and he just wants this to work out — whatever this actually  _is._  
  
"So," Grantaire says, after a long moment.  "What did you think?  Of the exhibit?"  
  
"I liked it," Enjolras replies, though what he actually remembers of the exhibit is spotty — he’d been paying too much attention to Grantaire and the way he’d been speaking about them to care much about the pieces themselves.  "And you seemed to like it a lot."  
  
Grantaire turns his head away — Enjolras thinks he catches the hint of a blush.  ”Yeah.”  
  
"I liked yours the most," Enjolras confesses quietly.    
  
That catches Grantaire off-guard.  ”Really?”  
  
"Yes."  
  
The silence after that isn’t really  _fraught_  so much as…mildly unsettling.  They don’t look at each other as they pass into the park, and Enjolras wonders if he’s fucked it up at long last.  
  
"I could — I could draw you, sometime," Grantaire mumbles, then shakes his head, like it’s a ridiculous idea.  
  
"I’d like that," Enjolras replies quickly.  "I’d love to watch you at work."  
  
Grantaire lets out a nervous bark of laughter.  ”It’s nothing special.  Probably really boring to sit there, I don’t know.”  
  
"I don’t mind," Enjolras mumbles, looking down at his shoes for a moment.   _And it would be special, it would be you._  
  
Conversation drifts into silence again then, but this, for some reason, seems far less tense, less awkward, and Enjolras ventures: “I finally got around to watching  _The Princess Bride._ ”  
  
"So I can stop bothering you about it?" Grantaire says, grinning.  "What did you think of that?"  
  
Enjolras thinks about it for a long moment.  ”I liked it a lot.  I mean, it wasn’t perfect, but it’s eminently quotable.  So now at least I understand more of your references.”  
  
Grantaire laughs at him.  ”That’s good, at least.”  
  
"I really liked the scene at the end.  When they win, and Westley and Buttercup get to be happy."  Enjolras blushes, but it’s not as though he can take it back.  
  
"Oh my god, I should call Marius and let him know you’re actually capable of being sentimental about other people’s relationships."  Grantaire is still laughing, and Enjolras doesn’t mind the embarrassment.  
  
"Shut up," he mumbles without any real rancor.  "They went through so much — he  _died_  for loving her.”  
  
Grantaire’s laughter dies away.  ”Yeah.  And then they got a happy ending anyway.  ’S why it’s a fairy tale.”  
  
"There should be more fairy tales, then," Enjolras mumbles.  
  
"Of course you think that," Grantaire says, and there’s something affectionate coloring his voice.  "Idealist."  
  
"But isn’t that what love’s about?" Enjolras asks, finally looking at Grantaire properly.  "About this ideal that people need each other, and that they’d give anything for certain people in their lives?  And happy endings are so important, so, _so_ important for that.”  
  
"But happy endings — they don’t happen like that, in real life.  There’s no coming back from the dead because of true love.  If it were real Buttercup would have wound up married to Humperdinck and she would have killed herself, and that’s a shit story."  Grantaire has one hand shoved in his pocket, the other curled tight around his coffee.  "Who the fuck wants to hear about that, really?  Happens enough in the real world."  
  
Enjolras considers it.  ”She doesn’t though.  He’s there.”  
  
"But she would have.  She would have, and what the fuck kind of love is that?  It’s dangerous, is what it is."  
  
"Isn’t anything, though?  Isn’t living dangerous?"  Enjolras watches Grantaire — he looks so sad, and Enjolras wants to wipe the look off his face.  "Isn’t feeling anything a risk?  But people feel and live and love anyway, don’t they?"  
  
"It doesn’t matter," Grantaire mutters.  "People get lucky, I guess."  
  
"I’m sorry," Enjolras mumbles.  "I just — I feel strongly about this."  
  
Grantaire laughs, even sounds like he means it.  ”You feel strongly about everything.  That’s why you do what you do, Enjolras.  I didn’t expect this to be any different.”  
  
Enjolras nods.  ”Th-thank you.”  
  
"What for?" Grantaire asks, looking at him.  
  
"For not laughing at me more than you have," Enjolras admits.  "I thought you’d make fun of me more than this."  
  
Grantaire tilts his head.  ”Why would I do that?  It’s — it’s  _good_ , what you do.  I mean, the world’s shit, and on a large scale there’s no changing that, but I’d be an idiot to say that you don’t — that what you do, with all of that feeling about inconsequential shit, saying it doesn’t matter would be lying.”  
  
Enjolras’s throat tightens, and he takes another drink of his coffee.  It’s bittersweet, and he likes it the way he likes Grantaire’s invective and rhetoric.  ”You care a lot more than you pretend to,” he responds.  
  
Silence again, still more companionable.  It breaks open again into conversation, and they wander the park until there’s really nowhere left to wander.  Enjolras is smiling and Grantaire is laughing, and they’re talking about comic book movies — Enjolras has seen many, because there are some things that he cannot refuse Courfeyrac.  
  
"Just, seriously, who thought  _X3_  was a good idea, really?”  Grantaire asks, his smile wide.  Enjolras could kiss him.  
  
"I have no idea, but I swear, that movie makes me so,  _so_  angry.”  
  
They take up residence on a bench, and Enjolras is pretty sure that this is perfect, that they’ve final found some equilibrium, and he never wants it to end.  
  
Grantaire is still smiling, looking out across the park.  In profile, he’s beautiful, lit brightest by his face, and Enjolras has to be careful about what he’s doing, because otherwise — otherwise he’s going to  _do something_ , and that would just end badly.  
  
For the moment, though, they just sit there, enjoying each others’ company.  But something’s building inside Enjolras, building and building until he can hardly bear it.  
  
"I really should paint you properly," Grantaire says, glancing at Enjolras before turning his eyes back to the view before them.  
  
"I’d like that," Enjolras repeats.  
  
Grantaire’s smile lights up the late afternoon.  Enjolras can only smile back.


End file.
